I Love You, You Idiot
by Venstre
Summary: In which John gets sick, and Sherlock tries but ultimately proves himself completely useless. Well, almost useless. Sherlock/John


**Title**: I Love You, You Idiot  
><strong>Description<strong>: In which John gets sick, and Sherlock tries but ultimately proves himself completely useless. Well, almost useless. Sherlock/John  
><strong>Pairing(s)<strong>: Sherlock/John  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 1,870  
><strong>Notes<strong>: Requested by Sithmarauder; based loosely on Reapersun's adorable comic (she's on Tumblr, and her art is amazing).

Let's assume they're already in an established relationship so I don't have to put any more plot than I have to in here sigh. Anywho, reviews are very much appreciated, and now that I'm done shamelessly whoring myself for them, enjoy the fic!

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><p>It had been a while since John had been this sick.<p>

He lay miserably on the couch, pulling the blanket he had wrapped around himself tighter. Of course he'd loosen it in a few seconds because he'd get too hot, but it was worth it to calm the chills he had, if only for a few seconds. Even his baggy jumper—an atrocious thing Sherlock got him as a joke, with cats all over the front—doesn't seem to keep in the heat.

He groaned, wishing he could muster the effort to even move, let alone reach out and grab his laptop. It wouldn't really be a good idea anyways; he'd probably get it full of germs and bacteria and nasty stuff like that.

So he sat there, brooding, while he shifted uncomfortably under the blanket. It couldn't be much past seven in the morning. He should have just stayed in bed. Mrs. Hudson was gone for the weekend, leaving John and Sherlock on their own, and John realized with a sigh he wasn't going to get much help over the next two days.

Just as he felt himself getting somewhat comfortable, the door creaked open and Sherlock walked out. He was still in the shirt he had worn the day before, his hair even more of a ratty mess than usual. Thus was Sherlock in the mornings.

John tucked himself deeper into the covers, glaring at Sherlock's back. The detective still hadn't noticed him, and as he disappeared into the kitchen John didn't take his eyes off of the doorframe. It wasn't so much anger as it was annoyance that was causing John's sour mood; no one liked being sick.

Had he ever seen Sherlock sick? John didn't think so. Sherlock was barely human, anyways. And with so little sleep and so little to eat, his immune system logically should be down the loo. But the man hadn't been sick the whole time John had known him, a whole year and a half. Lucky bastard.

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen just then, clutching a cup of tea in his hands and dark bags set under his eyes. John doubted he'd slept much the night before, even though they were in between cases Sherlock was rarely unable to keep himself entertained. For a few days at least—John guessed four or five at most. Then the man just plain lost it.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed as he noticed him at last. "Whatever happened to you? Are you sick?"

John didn't say anything, choosing instead to continue moping. He sneezed, feeling his head spin with the sudden movement.

"Here, I—" Sherlock blundered gracelessly around the room, looking for something. His gaze finally set on a box of tissues by his microscope, and hurriedly scooped them up and brought them back to John. "These might…help." Good god, he was awful at this.

John reached out with one hand, taking them in a slight grip and then letting the box drop unceremoniously beside him. "Thanks," he mumbled, his words distorted by the blanket by his face.

Sherlock just kind of stood there awkwardly—a sight to behold in itself; the man was never awkward—and when John felt himself pushed into a coughing fit he reached forward as if to embrace him or something. He stopped himself, looking at a loss of what to do, and then smiled.

"Here, I'll cook something up for you," he said, fleeing the room with a quick laugh.

Hmm. So Sherlock was being thoughtful for once, and was going to make him something. Perhaps he did care, if only a little.

And then John remembered he'd seen Sherlock cook about as many times as he'd seen him sick. Which was never.

He'd seen him at his microscope, though. He'd seen his 'experiments' in the fridge and at times scattered around the house. He'd heard him muttering about never having any willing test subjects, no one wanting to risk quite possibly their lives for that utter madman.

So it was _John_ who was to be the test subject.

He tried to call out, to tell him it was quite okay, and was sent into another couching fit instead. Paranoia crept up his spine, a sudden chill causing him to pull the blanket closer around himself.

"Test subject," John muttered to himself, reaching for a tissue to blow his nose. He did not like the sound of that. _Test subject. Test subject. Test subject._

There was a loud clatter from the kitchen and Sherlock cried out. John slipped deeper under the blanket. Something smelt burnt. Horribly burnt. Was he burning human flesh? No, human flesh smelled different. Unless it was human organs…those eyeballs he'd had in the microwave a while ago, the toes in the vegetable drawer…

John diverted his train of thought, trying to slow his breathing by thinking relaxing thoughts. Thoughts of how Mrs. Hudson would come back in a couple of days, and how she would make him biscuits and tea and get him feeling better again.

The sound of something making an awful _splat_ against the kitchen floor didn't help. It was probably a human organ or a limb or something, and John felt his breath catch in his throat in panic.

Sherlock cussed, and John heard him cleaning it up. Did they even _have_ any food in the house? He remembered seeing some eggs, they had bread, and there might have been some things in the freezer. As well as fingers and you know, maybe the odd head or something.

John forced himself not to think about that. Instead he focused very hard on the patterned wallpaper, thinking about anything but what Sherlock could possibly be doing.

The smell of something burning brought John back to his senses. John buried his nose in the blanket, trying to block out the smell that somehow managed to penetrate even his stuffed up sinuses. He only hoped it wasn't human flesh. God, he hoped more than anything else.

Wondering about Sherlock's knowledge of science, John shivered from the chill. He did those weird experiments about the human body functions after death and his knowledge of chemistry was vast, but John doubted he knew anything pertaining to medicine.

How long had it been? Fifteen minutes? John didn't know. He didn't have his watch on, and didn't want to get up to search for his phone.

And then Sherlock was in front of him, face smeared with something burnt and coffee dripping from one side of his head. He brandished a plate of food charred beyond repair—dark, hard eggs, black toast, and overcooked sausages—and coffee in John's favourite mug.

He kneeled down in front of John, looking quite self-depreciating. "I—" He paused, looking dejectedly at the tray as he set it down. "I'm an _idiot_," he groaned, his head leaning into the blanket pooled around John's lap.

And John laughed.

Not a cruel laugh, but an affectionate, relieved one. He reached out and held Sherlock's head, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

"_I'm _an idiot," he corrected him softly, still chuckling softly.

Sherlock mumbled something into the blanket, and then turned his head to stare at him questioningly.

"I thought you were devising some sort of…potion or whatnot with some of those appendages you keep in the fridge," John told him, feeling quite silly. "I thought I was going to be poisoned."

Scowling at him, Sherlock huffed in indignation. "I'm not _that_ daft," he whined. "I just…don't know how to cook." He sighed and pressed his face back into the fabric.

John grinned endearingly at him. He pulled on Sherlock's arms until he joined him on the couch, sprawled out lengthwise with his head on John's lap. His eyes, still bashful, looked up at him from under his thick lashes and his mouth was curved downwards in a small scowl.

"Never mind that. You can go out and grab something later instead," he told him, running a hand through his dark hair.

Sherlock didn't quite meet his eye, still frowning.

John scoffed. For someone as pompous and fond as himself as Sherlock, he sure did get self-depreciating at times.

Laughing and leaning down to press their foreheads together, John's concern of getting Sherlock sick as well the only thing keeping him from kissing him, he rested there a moment with him.

"Thank you for your effort," he murmured, abruptly pulling back when he felt another coughing fit come on.

Sherlock frowned, and reached up to take John's face in his own. It was moments like these, where he let his icy exterior down for just a moment to reveal the very warm, very _human_ heart beneath that had gotten to John in the first place. With a smile to match his frown, John placed one of his hands over Sherlock's.

"I hope you wash it before you touch your face," he murmured.

Grumbling, Sherlock's frown deepened. "What if I don't care if I get sick?"

"You'd damn well better. You're useless enough at your best; we'd perish if you get sick as well."

"Then we can take care of each other."

"Rubbish. Neither of us would get around to doing anything."

Sherlock took his hand away, pouting, and crossed his arms. "Then maybe you'd actually let me near you. It can't be that bad."

Sighing and taking his forehead in his hand, John stared down at him. "You're insufferable."

"Thank you."

"Not a compliment."

"Not for _you_, no."

As John leaned his head down to glare at him, Sherlock suddenly brought his hands up and pulled him into a kiss. It was quick, for John pushed back as soon as he knew what was happening, but Sherlock was grinning like a madman nonetheless.

"You blathering idiot!" John yelled, his voice coarse. "You're going to fall ill for sure now!"

Sherlock beamed, his teeth bared in a grin.

John responded by shoving him off the couch.

Laughing, Sherlock stood himself up and sauntered to the kitchen. "I'll call for some takeout," he said, his voice slightly singsong.

John glared at him until he was out of sight.

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><p>The next morning, Sherlock didn't get out of bed. It was nearly ten thirty when John finally sauntered in, feeling slightly better, to peer into the gloom. There was a familiarly shaped mound of blankets in the middle of the bed, and John stripped them off to slide in next to him.<p>

There was a mumble of protest, annoyed and weak at the same time, and Sherlock coughed a bit into his pillow. His eyes were like ice when he turned to glare at John, who only reached over to hold him close. Sherlock yowled like a cat about how hot he was and no don't come closer bloody hell you are like a burning furnace no no _go away you goddamned prick go away already_.

Pulling his flailing body closer, John laughed. "It can't be that bad, can it?" he asked with a chuckle.

Sherlock mumbled some more, pressing his head into John's chest.

John grinned, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

Sherlock sneezed, and grumbled.

John only held him tighter.


End file.
